ll/'< 

1:1 


^m~r*. 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


QUEEN  HELEN 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 


CHICAGO 

WAY  &  WILLIAMS 

1895 


Copyright,  1895,  by  IV ay  &  Williams 


PRINTED   AT   THE    DE  VINNE   PRESS 

WITH   TWO   REDUCED   ENGRAVINGS   FROM   THE   COMPOSITIONS   OF  JOHN   FLAXMAN 
ILLUSTRATING   THE   ILIAD   OF   HOMER 


PS 


QUEEN  HELEN 


One  hundred  and  sixty  copies  printed, 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  them  for  sale. 


1  ^yi 

JL   * 


QUEEN  HELEN 


PERSONS 

MENELAUS,  King  of  Sparta. 

HELEN,  his  Queen. 

PARIS,  Prince  of  I  lion. 

/ETHRA,  serving-woman  to  the  Queen. 

Courtiers  of  Sparta. 

Courtiers  of  Ilion. 

Scene:     SPARTA. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

QUEEN  HELEN i 

HOMERIC  EXPERIMENTS : 

CHRYSES  BEFORE  AGAMEMNON 55 

HELEN  ON  THE  TOWER 57 

MEETING  OF  THE  DANAANS  AND  TROJANS      ....  58 

HECTOR  TO  ANDROMACHE 60 

ACHILLES  TO  ULYSSES 62 

HERA  IN  HER  CHAMBER 65 

ACHILLES  MOUNTS  THE  WAR  CHARIOT 67 

ANACREON : 

HAPPY  GRASSHOPPER 73 

LITTLE  LOVE  FORGETTETH  HIS  UMBRELLA  74 

HOMER 75 

THE  ILIAD 76 

THE  ODYSSEY 77 

HALCYONE 78 


QUEEN  HELEN 

Palace  of  Menelaus. 
The  King  and  Queen  looking  from  a  window. 

Menelaus. 

\VHO  are  the  stranger-folk  the  people  crowd 
About,  and  lead  up  hither  from  the  river? 

Helen. 

More  hunters,  come  to  boast,  and  chase  the  boar 
With  Menelaus,  Sparta's  hunter-king. 

Menelaus. 
And  Helen's  husband. 


Helen. 

Hence  he  should  not  hunt, 
Forsake  her  bed  for  dens  and  lairs  of  beasts. 
Fame  does  not  trump  my  lord  as  Helen's  husband ; 
Yon  rovers  rove  not  after  any  husband, 
Their  chariots  thunder  toward  the  hunter-king. 

Menelaus. 

Came  they  to  me  because  I  wear  the  pearl 
Of  all  the  world  upon  my  breast,  then  were 
This  house  a  fiercer  den  than  any  on 
Taygetus.     We  should  sit  a  throne  of  bones, 
And  drink  our  wine  from  cups  of  carved  skulls. 
Nay,  nay,  my  golden  girl,  wherefore  so  pale? 
It  was  but  play. 

Helen. 

I  do  not  use  to  see 
That  look.   T  is  gone,  and  with  it  my  silly  fright. 

Menelaus. 

The  leader  is  no  Greek.     We  Grecians  walk 
The  ground ;  my  Prince,  there,  trips  it  on  the  wind. 
They  are  come  in.    Rest,  girl,  you  are  not  well. 

[Exit. 

Helen. 
Is  it  the  wand  of  Hermes  ?     Do  I  sleep  ? 


No  Greek,  indeed;  what  was  the  shape  I  saw, 
And  what  the  glory  flashed,  and  hid  him  in  't? 


Palace  Hall.      Menelaus  and  Courtiers.      Paris  and  Courtiers. 

Paris. 

King  Menelaus,  we  are  of  Ilion  all, 
Turned  from  our  errand.    Not  with  men  it  lies, 
But  with  the  gods,  to  reach  the  wished-for  shore. 
Our  baffled  sails  were  set  for  Salamis  ; 
Yonder  they  flap,  down  by  the  Spartan  strand. 
Float  whitherward  we  may,  we  hail  from  Thrace, 
Where  built  my  grandsire,  old  Laomedon, 
Poseidon  and  Apollo  both  his  slaves 
For  the  strong  work. 

Menelaus. 

You  are  good  Priam's  son. 

Come,  let  me  take  you  by  the  hand.     We  know 
Your  white-haired  father  well,  fair  spoken  of  fame  ; 
Know  Hecabe's  first-born,  your  brother,  Hector  ; 
And  fortune  now  has  added  fair  young  Paris, 
Ay,  given  us  leave  to  look  him  in  the  face. 
Most  welcome  ! 

3 


Paris. 

Menelaus  locks  my  tongue, 
Which  should  declare  the  purpose  of  our  journey. 

Menelaus. 

Speak  on  ;  but  plain  the  look  of  these  my  friends, 
Intent  on  further  service,  bids  me  say 
You  shall  not  go  till  we  have  faced  the  boar 
Together,  and  so  tried  the  thews  of  Thrace. 

Paris. 

Most  willingly  we  bide  a  little  time, 
At  least  till  we  have  hunted,  and  have  pledged 
Cups  from  the  fragrant  hills  round  Ismaron. 
Longer  we  may  not  stay  ;  for  we  are  sent, 
As  will  be  granted,  on  an  urgent  journey. 
When  Heracles  laid  low  Laomedon, 
He  took  for  spoil  his  child,  Hesione, 
And  gave  her  to  his  friend,  Prince  Telamon 
Of  Salamis.     Prince  Telamon,  as  all 
Men  know,  is  dead,  and  in  his  place  reigns  Ajax. 
So  now  it  stands  that  my  old  father's  sister 
Is  pining  captive  in  a  stranger-land, 
Exiled  and  base  dishonored.     Wherefore  we 
Are  charged  to  go  to  Salamis  and  say, 
"  Priam  would  have  Hesione  at  home." 
4 


Menelaus. 

T  is  a  just  mission.     We  will  feast  to-night, 
And  hunt  to-morrow.     Rested  from  the  hunt, 
As  squares  it  with  your  pleasure  you  shall  sail, 
Commissioned  doubly  strong:   "  Ilion  and  Sparta 
Demand  of  Salamis  old  Priam's  sister." 


Banquet-Hall.     Menelaus  leads  in  Helen. 

Menelaus. 

It  were  no  banquet  not  set  off  with  Helen. 

Our  ways  are  freer,  Prince,  than  they  may  be 

At  Ilion.     Ere  we  fall  to  baser  joys, 

My  Queen,  receive  our  new  friend  Paris,  who, 

If  he  but  bide  a  week,  when  he  departs 

Will  take  with  him  the  heart  of  love-sick  Sparta. 


[Aside. 

If  my  old  eyes  can  see,  it  will  be  so  ; 
If  my  old  hands  can  help,  it  shall  be  so. 

Paris. 

Most  gracious  lady,  light  of  Lacedasmon, 
In  honest  Sparta  none  may  hide  his  thought. 

5 


[Aside. 

Tush,  Paris  !     Aphrodite's  thought,  not  yours. 

Paris. 

It  happened,  once,  on  a  slope  of  piny  Ida, 
There  came  unto  a  shepherd  lad,  who  fed 
The  flocks  of  my  old  father,  ladies  three 
That  walk  the  envied  ways  of  blest  Olympus. 
The  Olympian  gallants,  gods  although  they  are, 
High  born  as  they  themselves,  could  not,  it  seems, 
Be  trusted  to  decide  which  was  the  fairest. 
They  found  the  herdboy  on  Scamander's  bank — 
Scamander,  yellow  as  his  own  wild  locks, 
Stained  with  the  sunshine.     There  he  sat,  and 

played 

As  blithe  a  pipe  as  ever  lifted  foot 
Of  faun  or  forest  nymph,  dancing  to  Pan. 
The  first  to  speak  was  she  that  sits  by  Zeus, 
The  Bride  of  Heaven  :  "Sweet  lad,  we  know  that 

you, 

Lovelier  than  are  the  lovely  things  you  live 
Among, —  the  brooks,  the  blossoms,  and  the 

trees, — 

Can  truly  tell  of  thousand  beauteous  shapes 
Which  is  most  beautiful.     Take  you  this  apple, 
And,  looking  on  us  justly,  give  it  her 
6 


You  find  the  fairest."     "  Glossy  boy,"  spoke  then 
She  with  the  oval  face  and  floating  hair, 
The  virgin  'gainst  whose  ivory  side  the  lance 
Of  love  is  shattered,  she  whose  glowing  shoulder 
Smote  once  poor  mortal  sight,  and  put  it  out 
Forever, — "  take  it,  boy,  and  with  free  hand 
Offer  it  her  whose  right  it  is.     Decide  ; 
We  stand  upon  the  choice." 
Till  now  the  lad  stood  gazing  ;  dazed,  but  bent 
To  do  his  best  with  what  few  thoughts  were  left. 
He  stood  there,  tapping  with  the  reed  his  limbs 
Well  plumped,  yet  trembling  under  him,  he  felt, 
When  the  other  moved  toward  him,  drew  very 

close, 

And,  silent,  waited.     He  looked  up  at  her, 
And,  as  a  wondering  child  wakes  out  of  sleep, 
And  reaches  toward  its  waiting  mother,  so 
He  waked,  and  put  the  apple  in  her  hand. 
Could  he  do  otherwise  ?     This  last  it  was 
That  rose  from  the  pure  foam  by  blossomy  Cyprus, 
And  slipt  like  summer  morning  down  the  shore, 
Which,  printed  soft  with  her  immortal  feet, 
Sent  roses  up  and  lilies  as  she  went. 

/Ethra.       [Aside. 

Let  him  step  forth  that  had  done  otherwise. 

7 


Helen. 
It  is  a  pretty  tale  ;  but,  Prince,  your  thought  ? 

Paris, 
Poor  silly,  silly  lad  ! 

Helen. 
I  think  his  elders  had  not  hit  it  better. 

Paris. 

He  stopt  not  with  the  deed,  but  would  stout  hold, 
When  ripe  his  years  were  grown,  that  he  had 

looked 

Upon  the  fairest  shape  of  man  or  god. 
So  late  he  learns  the  cheat :  I  was  that  boy. 

Menelaus. 
Dread  Prince,  see  that  you  bide  within  my  walls. 

/Etbra.      [Aside. 
Fecks  !  he  will  be  obedient ;  never  fear. 

Menelaus. 

Though  Zeus  were  for  it,  I  'd  not  let  you  loose 
Among  the  listening  girls.     Had  I  your  tongue, 
Though  horrent  bodied  as  the  monster  hewn 
To  's  death  by  blue-eyed  Heracles  at  foot 


Of  Ilion's  towers,  I  swear  I  could  go  forth 
And  ravish  all  the  darlings  of  mankind, 
Nor  leave  one  love  for  him  that  followed  me. 

Paris. 

Your  lord  lets  rise  my  raw,  unordered  words, 
With  marshaled  Spartan  ranks  to  march  them 

down. 

Pray,  lady,  take  this  gold,  these  jewels,  worth 
A  little  kingdom,  and,  comparing  them 
With  what  I  gave  to  Aphrodite,  know 
The  man  is  so  much  wiser  than  the  boy. 
And  you,  O  King,  who,  by  some  art  beyond 
Rude  Ilion's  reach,  have  won  this  lady,  take 
For  badge  of  victory  a  suit  of  gold, — 
This  armor  wrought  to  case  a  kingly  shape, 
And  with  it  grasp  this  fitting  spear,  to  guard 
Your  god's  possession  'gainst  the  emptied  world. 

First  Group  of  Courtiers,  in  another  part  of  the  room. 

First  Spartan. 

Come,  now,  have  Ilion's  meadows  all  the  bees, 
And  has  your  prince  drained  every  hive  ? 

First  Trojan. 

That 's  Paris. 


Second  Trojan. 

Fear  not  for  him  that  from  his  cradle  mates 
With  Cebren  nymphs,  and,  fair  as  they  themselves, 
Has  many  loves  as  he  has  sunny  days. 

Second  Group  of  Courtiers. 

First  Spartan. 

Oft  as  I  've  blinked  upon  the  shining  queen, 
Always  before  I  could  half  ope  my  eyes  ; 
To-night  I  'm  blind  as  old  Tiresias. 

Second  Spartan. 

Take  you  his  blindness  ;  1  prefer  his  seership. 
Comes  there  not  something  of  that  parley  such 
As  men  to  furthest  time  will  not  forget, 
I  am  no  prophet. 

First  Spartan. 

Much  is  settled  now : 

Before  this  hour  eye  has  not  seen  two  mortals 
Together,  bright  as  yonder  pair.     So  soft 
As  Argive  Helen's  look  was  not  her  own 
That  out  of  heaven  leaned,  and  straight  was  lost 
To  it  in  shadows  of  the  Latmian  bower ; 
Nor  he  that  drew  her  down  knew  sweeter  dream 
Than  folds,  now,  raptured  Paris. 


Third  Spartan. 

Menelaus, 

If  you  do  sleep,  to-night,  in  wonted  peace, 
I  '11  not  believe  you  Agamemnon's  brother. 

First  Group  of  Courtiers. 

Trojan. 

We  jest ;  the  prince  but  plays  a  merry  part, 
The  queen  but  hears,  and  answers  him  in  kind. 

Spartan. 

Nay,  man,  I  think  the  queen  much  moved  withal. 
And,  I  would  ask  once  more,  why  is  it  women, 
Or  high  or  low,  so  droop  on  dainty  men, 
Falling  in  love,  as  't  were,  among  themselves? 

Trojan. 

You  wrong  the  prince.    His  leopard's  lines,  his 

head, 

So  bright,  and  airy  carried,  work  deceit ; 
His  are  the  thews  that,  next  to  Hector's,  bend 
The  necks  of  Thrace. 

Spartan. 

A  thousand  pardons,  Thracian, 
But 't  is  the  very  hardest  thing  of  all 
For  my  belief. 


Trojan. 

To-morrow,  should  the  chase 
Be  worth  it,  you  will  see  another  man 
Than  he,  there,  dallying  with  the  dreamy  queen. 

Spartan. 

To-night  thrive  Ilion, — feasting  and  fair  women  ; 
To-morrow  Sparta, — fasting  and  dumb  valor. 

Trojan. 

But  see,  the  queen  retires,  led  lingering  off 
In  loveliness  which,  after  all,  goes  not, 
But,  like  a  summer  day,  disputes  the  dark. 

Another  Spartan. 

Now  to  our  cups,  and  pleasures  meet  for  men, 
Then  sleep,  if  time  be  left ;  and  when  first  snort 
The  horses  of  the  morning,  for  the  hills, 
And  Sparta's  joy,  cropping  the  flower  of  Ilion. 

Another  Trojan. 

The  tenderest  flower  sometimes  has  hardy  stem, 
And  oft,  too,  from  its  softness  sticks  a  thorn. 
So  let  it  rest ;  for  yonder  he  returns 


Under  whose  royal  roof  no  noise  should  break 
Save  sounds  of  praise  and  honest  revelry. 


Paris,  alone  on  his  couch,  after  the  banquet. 
/Ethra  approaches  him. 


Young  Prince,  I  am  a  woman,  neither  nymph 
Nor  maid  love-led  from  lorn  Scamander's  bank. 
Prince,  I  am  old  ;  I  was  not  always  so. 
Years  ere  you  breathed  the  air  or  charmed  the  hearts 
Of  llion,  I  was  young.     The  years  change  all, 
What  is,  to-day,  shows  nothing  of  what  was  ; 
You  meet  me  here,  silvered  and  bent,  a  slave, 
Shorn  even  of  the  honor  due  white  hairs. 

Parts. 

Woman,  you  have  my  pity.     Is  't  for  that 

You  come,  when  age  with  youth  should  covet  sleep  ? 

/EtJjra. 

Sleep  !     Had  I  your  youth  and  what  the  gods 
Have  given  you  with  it,  placed  as  you  are,  now, 
My  eyes,  instead  of  folding  in  blank  lids, 
'3 


Would  stare  themselves  from  out  their  tortured 

sockets. 

Pity  for  my  poor  self?     Nay,  but  for  her, 
The  child-wife  Helen.     I  have  not  forgot, 
Though  't  be  so  far  behind,  how  sweet  youth  is. 
To  Sphasria,  on  the  gulf  of  Saron,  once 
I  fared,  fleet  as  the  wind.     Under  a  cliff' 
With  awful  shadow  was  I  secret  bathing, 
When  from  his  palace,  in  the  splendid  deep 
By  rocky  Imbros,  drave  Poseidon  forth 
His  horses  golden-hoofed  and  brazen-maned, 
And  lashed  them  toward  his  palace  on  the  shore. 
His  fierce  glance  pierced  to  me ;  he  reached,  and 

off 

His  chariot  whirled  us.     Ay,  Poseidon  't  was. 
I  tell  you  this  that  you  may  know  how  much 
It  is  I  say,  as  on  my  knees  I  swear 
The  water-god  caught  up  a  freckled  wench 
Compared  to  her  the  prey  of  laggard  Paris. 

Paris. 
Woman,  I  am  the  guest  of  Menelaus. 

/Etbra. 

Has  love,  in  truth,  become  so  poor  !   Why,  love, 
It  owned  the  world  when  I  was  young  ;  ay,  had 


There  been  a  thousand  worlds,  it  would  have  ranged 
'Em  all,  and  brought  their  haughty  riches  home 
To  deck  its  pleasure-house  and  bridal  bed. 
There  was  no  king  but  love,  no  queen  but  beauty, 
In  days  when  virgins  closed  with  kings  and  gods, 
And  sons  were  born  were  worth  the  weight  and 

pain, 

Sons  that,  as  babes,  would  grasp  the  father's  spear, 
And  shake  't  in  play  as  no  man  swings  it  now. 

Paris. 

Did  all  the  world  turn  robber,  he  'd  not  fall 
With  it,  the  guest  of  her  so  honest  lord. 


Honest,  spotless  Atreides  ! 
Believe  it,  scorn  the  gods,  and  get  you  hence 
With  two  dead  hearts  for  trophy,  two  dead  lives, 
Two  loves  that  might  have  been,  sweeter  than  loves 
That  make  men  pale  to  read  of,  vilely  slain. 

Aphrodite  appears,  and  vanishes. 

Paris. 

Wild  as  my  thought  plunges  no  bolt  of  Jove, 
Driven,  hissing,  down  the  hollow  of  the  night.— 
I  do  not  sleep  ;  say  on. 

15 


/Eibra. 

It  is  sound  sleep  to  what  't  will  turn  ere  long  ; 
I  have  borne  sons,  and  know  the  stuff  of  men. 
How  came  he  by  her,  he,  the  blameless  king? 
When  Helen  yet  was  in  her  bud  of  beauty, 
Foreseeing  the  blossom  of  her  summertime, 
Came  up  the  suitors  to  old  king  Tyndareus  — 
Her  sister's  father,  Paris,  not  her  own, 
As  I  in  time  will  show  you — till  his  gate 
Was  full.     Cretan  Idomeneus  came  up, 
His  chariot  clogged  with  gold  ;  Meges  was  here, 
The  son  of  Phyleus,  brave  as  the  battle-god  ; 
Antilochus,  the  young  and  bold,  pressed  in, 
With  melody  stolen  from  his  snowy  sire, 
Who  speaks,  and  charms  the  very  winds  of  Pylos  ; 
By  him  his  rival,  he  of  Ithaca, 
Odysseus,  cunning  as  the  serpents  round 
Apollo's  shrine.   Next  him  horseman  Menestheus, 
Who  rolled  'gainst  Theseus  his  mad  chariot 

wheels, 

And  haled  him  basely  from  his  father's  throne  ; 
Here  Diomedes  strode,  behind  his  shield, 
Ward  of  the  bluest  eyes  that  watch  from  heaven  ; 
And  to  and  fro  among  them  all  would  pass 
Methone's  prince,  the  friend  of  Herakles, 
Who  took  from  him  his  arrows  as  he  died. 
16 


Paris.      [To  himself. 
I  know  not  why,  I  shuddered  at  that  last. 


As  I  have  named  them  came  they  up  that,  side 
By  side  with  Menelaus,  chafed  these  walls 
Which  shut  us  in,  to-night,  shouldering  toward 

Helen. 

You  picture  gentle,  high-born  gardeners,  come 
To  pluck,  ere  it  should  flower,  the  Spartan  bud. 
I  tell  you,  I,  who  faced  them,  man  by  man, 
They  were  so  many  bulls, 
Which  locked  their  horns  together,  pawed  the 

ground 

As  they  would  plow  away  Eurota's  shore, 
Bellow  strong  Sparta  down,  till  one  of  all 
Should  lure  the  heavenly  heifer  from  her  hills. 
It  thaws  the  winter  in  my  veins  to  think  on  't  ; 
And  your  young  blood,  young  summer  blood, 

instead 

Of  throbbing  hot  to  valor's  fiery  top, 
Does  clot  and  scum  in  the  dull  ooze  of  sleep. 

Paris.      [Mutters,  his  mind  returning  to  the  vision. 

It  was  the  smile,  the  very  smile,  she  gave 
When  I  looked  up  at  her,  shining  on  Ida. 
17 


/Eflxa. 

The  prize  that  felled  all  Greece  at  Sparta's  feet, 

Was  't  honorably  won,  at  last?     'T  was  tossed 

By  lot  into  the  lap  of  Menelaus. 

He  has  her,  Paris  —  and  he  has  her  not. 

I  say  it  over  :  I  have  been  a  girl, 

And  for  a  girl  I  speak. 


[Rousing. 

Woman,  I  am  his  guest.     And  saw  I  not, 

A  little  hour  ago,  she  loves  the  king? 

She  has  waxed  fond  of  him,  wooed  by  sure  worth, 

Than  which  a  better  lover  never  was. 

^Etbra. 

With  but  a  glance  young  Paris  can  see  more 

Than  y^Ethra  with  her  years,  with  all  her  days 

And  nights  of  watching,  close  as  fondest  mother 

To  nestling  Helen.     Not  a  thought  is  hers 

But  I  can  hear  it.     So,  from  childhood,  has 

It  been  ;  her  little  troubles  all  my  own, 

Ay,  all  her  bitter  sorrows  and  her  joys. 

Hence,  well  as  I  hate  the  blackened  line  of  Atreus, 

So  well  I  love  the  unsullied  girl.     I  love 

Her,  Paris,  else  I  should  not  parley  more, 

But  leave  you  both  to  take  the  meed  of  them 

18 


That  scorn  the  guerdon  of  the  eternal  gods, 
And,  beggars,  shamble,  ragged,  down  to  death. 

Paris.      [Fiercely. 

She  loves  the  king. 


Ay,  since  who  has  her  heart 
Is  monarch  of  all  men,  the  very  king. 

Paris. 
She  loves  her  lord. 

SEtbra. 

Ay,  since  who  has  her  love 
Is  so  her  lord.  —  Didst  ever  know  a  nurse 
So  put  to  't  she  came  off  without  her  story? 
You  and  your  train  had  just  come  in  the  hall, 
And  Menelaus  gone  to  greet  you,  when, 
As  wont,  I  went  to  bind  young  Helen's  hair. 
Upon  her  couch  I  found  her,  fallen  asleep 
As  soft  and  soon  as  babe  upon  the  breast. 
Asleep  she  was,  yet  would  she  smile,  yea,  speak, 
At  times,  deep  in  most  wondrous  rapture.    Then 
Did  I  divine  't  was  not  a  common  sleep, 
But  a  sweet  spell  laid  on  her.    When  she  woke  — 
It  was  not  long  —  she  yet  stayed  half  in  sleep, 
Nor  spoke  she  more  than,  now  and  then,  a  word, 
Which  sounded  like  a  bird-tone  far  away, 
>9 


Adrift  in  the  mid-forest.     So  it  happed 

As  you  approached  the  palace.     While  I  robed 

The  girl,  to-night,  she  plied  me, — "/Ethra,  how 

May  mortals  tell  when  truly  't  is  a  god  ; 

Whether  it  be  a  dream,  or  they  in  truth 

Look  on  a  very  god  ?"     I  answered  her, 

It  was  a  thing  to  learn  of  one's  own  self, 

Not  to  be  taught.     "  I  think,  I  think,"  she  said  — 

Ah,  Paris,  had  you  heard  her  say  it,  seen 

The  dreamy  lids  droop  half-way  down  her  eyes  !  — 

"  I  think  the  prince  is  followed  by  a  goddess." 

Paris. 

Go,  now,  hoar  ,/Ethra ;  I  had  rather  dream 
Most  frightful  things  that  rack  their  souls  in  Hell 
Than  let  this  lead  me  further. 

sEtbra. 

'T  is  enough. 

If  so  the  goddess  bring  you  sleep,  fall  off ; 
If  so  she  bid  you  wake,  stand  to  the  watch  ; 
I  will  not  pit  my  wisdom  'gainst  Olympus. 
But  this  I  do  command  you,  by  my  might 
Of  prophet's  blood,  and  by  my  many  years, 
And  by  the  memory  of  my  youth  and  beauty, 
And  by  my  love,  the  guard  of  darling  Helen, 
Hold  stiff  your  spear,  to-morrow. 

[Exit. 


Paris. 

'T  was  an  old  woman's  tale,  all  known  before, 
So  straight  the  sight  of  love. — Benignant  goddess, 
Oh,  Aphrodite,  thou  hast  kept  thy  word  ! 
Could  I  be  deaf  to  those  two  wailing  voices, 
The  voice  of  wild  CEnone,  my  boyhood's  love, 
And  the  voice  of  her,  my  sister,  wan  Cassandra  ; 
Could  I  shut  out  their  cries, —  "  Go  not,  go  not !  " 
"  O  Paris,  bring  not  back  with  thee  a  wife  !  " 
Did  not  these  cries  torment  me,  I  should  sink 
To  sleep  soft  as  the  lovely  Helen  slept, 
Dear  Goddess,  on  thy  breast. 
Man  walks  in  darkness,  none  can  see  the  way  ; 
But  thou  wilt  open  it  to  me  as  I  go. 
To-night,  I  ask  but  this  :  fend  envious  Heaven 
From  me,  to-morrow.    Gods  will  watch  my  steps 
From  this  hour  on,  to  make  me  slip.     Ward  off 
The  gods.     Against  no  mortal  crave  I  aid. 


Helen.       [Alone,  weaving  and  singing. 

Softly,  shepherd,  watch  your  flock, 
They  must  let  the  baby  rock, — 
By-a-baby ,  by-a-by ; 
21 


Keep  the  dreams  back,  every  one, 
Till  the  journey  is  begun. 
By-a-baby,  by-a-by. 

Not  till  baby  floats  away, 

Pretty  shepherd,  let  them  stray, — 

By-a-baby,  by-a-by ; 

Then  around  him  let  them  play  ; 

Hark,  you,  shepherd,  what  I  say. 

By-a-baby,  by-a-by. 

Careless  shepherd,  keep  them  back  ; 
One  is  coming,  white  and  black, — 
By-a-baby,  by-a-by  ; 
Never,  never  let  him  go 
That  has  spot  upon  his  snow ; 
By-a-baby,  by-a-by. 

Softly,  shepherd,  soft,  I  say, 

Not  till  baby  floats  away, — 

By-a-baby,  by-a-by. 

Ah,  the  dreamkins,  well  they  know  ! 

Loose  them,  shepherd,  let  them  go: 

All  alone  are  you  and  I. 

Enter  Menelaus,  returned  from  the  hunt. 

Menelaus. 

Fair  as  the  dream  the  nimble  thread  shall  fix, 
Slipping  from  those  deft  fingers,  gliding  on 
That  wild-bird  melody. 


Helen. 

My  lord  come  home  ! 
Safe,  and  a  full  day  sooner  than  he  said. 

Menelaus. 

Home,  dearest,  hardly  safe  ;  mark  you  this  mark. 
And  lucky  man  I  am  it  is  no  worse. 

Helen. 

The  king  will  have  his  war  ;  when  there  's  no  war 
Will  make  it ;  tusk  of  boar  will  take  for  spear 
Wielded  by  direst  foe  of  mortal  breed, 
And  dash  against  it,  and  get  grievous  wounds, 
As  he  were  battling  for  his  queen  and  kingdom. 

Menelaus. 
Sweet  girl !  forever  finding  precious  fault — 

Helen. 

Which  halts  yet  far  behind  your  true  desert — 

Menelaus. 

Which  is  more  sweet  to  hear  than  song  of  nymphs, 
Tripping  in  grove  and  glen. 

Helen. 

It  is  more  praise 

Than  blame,  or  Menelaus  could  not  wake  it. 
23 


A  palace  can  be  lonely — let  it  go. 

But  I  do  hate  the  boars  !     Is  't  a  bad  hurt  ? 

Menelaus. 

The  best  hurt 's  bad.     For  cure  I  '11  take  a  peep 
Into  the  fairy  secret  of  your  loom. 

Helen.      [Holding  him  back. 

Not  yet ;  the  charm  's  at  work. 

Menelaus. 

Well,  tell  me,  then, 
What  song  you  sang.     That  may  a  little  help  me. 

Helen. 

A  sleep-song  ^thra  taught  me  long  ago, 
A  lullaby  one  hears  at  Athens,  where 
Over  the  door  the  olive  wreath  has  hung. 
It  came  to  me  as  I  thought  on  my  childhood. 
But 't  is  an  ugly  gash  !     Now  will  I  heal  it, 
Do  't  sooner  than  the  eldest  of  my  women  ; 
Here  be  my  ointments  and  my  bandages. 
I  hope  you  wreaked  upon  the  brute  revenge 
So  fierce,  the  news  of  it  will  spread  till  all 
Wild  Theras  howls  at  Menelaus'  name. 
24 


Menelaus. 

My  loud  war-cry  was  as  a  summer  breath, 
Nor  carried  it  more  terror. 


Helen. 

A  noble  foe,  his  every  bristle  kingly  ! 

Would  I  might  gloat  on  him,  a  humble  captive. 

Menelaus. 

A  joy,  I  question  not,  to  every  woman  ; 

The  tusk  that  dealt  me  this  was  grown  in  Thrace. 

Helen. 

A  Thracian  monster  did  it !     Point  him  out, 
To-night,  when  I  will  drive  him  to  the  prince, 
And  get  his  price,  that  we  may  keep  him,  cage 
Him  up,  against  a  merry  hunt  at  home. 

Menelaus. 

Keep  him  !     Nay,  that  were  harder  fortune  yet ; 

Next  would  he  wound  my  queen,  work  her  such 
hurt 

As  not  her  skill  and  mine,  combined,  could  medi 
cine ; 

'T  was  Paris'  taper  hand  that  dealt  the  blow. 

3  2 


Helen. 
The  prince!     I  'd  risk  my  naked  arm  'gainst  his. 

Menelau*. 
The  courage  is  too  common  ;  boast  not  on  't. 

Helen. 

The  prince !  nay,  say  't  was  some  one  'mong  my 

maids. 
Paris,  the  soft,  the  silken  ! 

Menelaus. 

Ay,  that  same  Paris,  with  a  woman's  wrist 
And  ringlets.     Never  more  misleading  man 
Did  ramp  Taygetus'  lairs.     To  see  him  lilt 
Along  the  hills,  swinging  this  way  and  that 
As  though  a  zephyr  steered  him,  then  the  change 
When  't  came  to  make  a  stand  !   Four  of  us 

rushed 

Together  to  stop  as  huge  a  brute  as  scours 
The  mountain.     I  was  first ;  but,  in  the  nick, 
Before  me  leapt  the  prince,  who  drew,  and  gave 
Me  one  spear-end  the  while  the  brute  took  t'other, 
Pricked  to  quick  death.    Beware  o'  silken  princes ! 
26 


Helen. 
Forthwith  dispatch  him  ;  Sparta  is  not  safe. 

Menelaus. 

Nay,  hear  me,  girl :  I  have  not  met  the  man 
I  'd  rather  make  my  friend.     He  shall  not  go, 
But  tarry  with  us  long  as  pleasure  holds  him. 
To-morrow,  I  set  out.     Till  my  return 
Hold  fast  Prince  Paris. 

Helen. 

I  had  thought,  perhaps, 
You  would  deny,  for  once,  Idomeneus, 
And  let  the  restless  Cretans  chase  alone. 
One  day  the  king  will  hunt  one  day  too  many. 

Enter  ./Ethra. 

Menelaus. 

T  is  one  of  haggard  /Ethra's  midnight  mutterings. 
Play  not  the  prophet,  girl ;  be  a  brave  queen. 
One  has  his  friends,  and  has  one  friend  of  all ; 
I  never  can  refuse  Idomeneus. 
However,  I  will  cut  my  pleasure  short ; 
Meanwhile  be  generous  with  our  Thracian  guests, 
Deal  with  free  hand  ;  in  nothing  stint  the  prince, 
Make  him  to  feel  that  all  I  have  is  his. 
27 


[Aside. 

If  he  do  feel  't  not,  now,  Olympus  is 
Untopped,  and  all  the  gods  are  tumbled  down. 


Helen  at  her  loom,  ytthra  by  her  side. 

SEthra. 

Heyday !  the  king  is  off;  it 's  hunt  again, 
And  woman  rules  once  more  unsinewed  Sparta. 
What  said  his  kingship  when  you  showed  him 
that? 

Helen. 

'T  is  but  begun  ;  I  could  not  show  it  so. 

SEfbra. 
What  is  the  name  o'  't  ? 

Helen. 

Name  ?  There  's  naught  to  name 
As  yet.  First  have  the  thing,  when  it  will  speak, 
And  name  itself. 

SEtbra. 

The  posture  is  a  god's, 
Confronting,  I  may  say,  a  Spartan  palace  ; 

28 


And  that  above  his  head,  which  first  I  took 
For  cloud,  may  grow  into  a  goddess'  wings. 

Helot. 

"T  is  faithful  if  so  quick  you  make  it  out. 

j&bra. 

A  jump,  and  lo,  your  skill  is  at  the  pitch  ; 

A  wondrous  sudden  mount.    One  power,  but 


My  lass,  can  push  so  fast.  You  have  the  thing, 
And  so.  as  you  have  taught  me,  have  its  name  ; 
Therefore  I  need  not  speak  it. 

Helm. 

After  all, 
It  may  not  be  the  prince. 


The  king,  perhaps, 
Hung  round  with  hunter's  glory. 

Helen. 

ytthra,  how 

Can  you  love  Helen  so  well,  and  hate  so  hard 
Helen  "s  honest  husband  ?    What  does  help  my 
heart, 

20 


Give  it  a  little  play,  too  much  shut  in, 

Might  hurt  his  heart,  which  has  more  room  than 

mine. 

He  wrongs  you,  truly,  holding  you  in  Sparta  ; 
But  it  is  for  my  sake. 

JEthra. 

I  will  requite 

His  service  yet.     If  he  is  king,  know  I 
Too,  had,  one  time,  a  kingdom.     You  forget 
Who  ^Ethra  is  ;  what  moves  me  more,  forget 
Who  Helen  is.     Is  she  the  king's  or  love's? 
Think  back,  my  Queen,  and  prick  the  silly  bubbles. 
In  this  same  room  where  now  you  picture  him 
That  is  the  very  king,  striving  to  lift 
Him  from  your  heart,  and  hold  him  for  your  eyes 
To  see  even  as  your  heart  sees, — in  this  room, 
I  say,  forgetful  Helen,  love,  long  since, 
Enjoyed  a  queen,  or  you  were  not  here,  now. 
In  at  that  window  flew  the  sovereign  swan 
That,  shadowing  your  mother,  quicked  her  with 

love 

That  love  might  be  again.     You  are  that  love  ; 
And,  sure  as  Zeus  upholds  his  throne,  the  king 
Of  love  will  claim  his  own.     So  soon  he  comes. 

Enter  Paris,  while  Helen  hurriedly  covers  the  loom. 


Paris. 

And  why  should  I  not  see  how  prospers  art 
At  Sparta  ? 

4 

Helen. 

T  is  scarce  swaddled  yet  ;  the  face, 
Of  him  whose  rude  arm  well  nigh  overthrew 
My  husband,  wielded  but  in  silly  sport, 
Would  fright  my  youngling   past  the  hope  of 
growth. 


[Aside. 

That  's  lamer  than  Hephaestus  :  he  whose  face, 
At  the  first  flash  o'  't,  overwhelmed  the  queen, 
With  her  the  king,  and  with  the  twain  the  king 

dom. 

[Exit  yfcthra. 

Paris. 

Who  is  the  woman  with  Queen  Helen  so  much, 
This  moment  gone? 

Helen. 

Prince,  I  half  shame  to  tell. 
For,  once  a  queen,  a  queen,  say  I,  forever. 
/Ethra,  a  slave  at  Sparta,  was  a  queen 
At  home.     The  chance  of  battle  lodged  her  here, 
And  here  she  bides.     Myself  would  set  her  free; 

3' 


But  since  the  king's  will  runs  the  other  way, 
She  stays  to  serve  me. 

Paris. 
Can  you  trust  her,  Queen  ? 

Helen. 

As  surely  as  great  Pittheus  was  her  sire, 
The  prophet-king. 

Paris. 
A  royal  prophetess ! 

Helen. 
Yet  blind  enough  with  love  to  serve  too  well. 

Paris. 
Now  first  I  learn  that  love  may  love  too  well. 

Helen. 

In  truth  it  may.     Love  is  too  greedy,  fierce. 
Love  must  have  all  or  nothing  ; 
A  furious  path  it  takes,  to  follow  it 
Through  bloody  seas  and  wastes  ablaze  with  war. 
I  think  the  poets  praise  love  much  too  much, 
And  with  it  that  other,  beauty.    Yes,  these  two, 
So  famed,  I  deem  of  doubtful  worth.     Could  I 
32 


Be  born  anew,  and  have  my  own  poor  making, 
I  'd  be  a  man,  a  slow  man  and  content, 
One  not  to  move  or  to  be  moved  on  slight 
Occasion  ;  one  would  know  the  greatest  is 
But  small,  that  he  is  favored  most  whose  place 
Is  only  large  enough  for  him  and  peace ; 
Yes,  Prince,  him  would  I  be,  that  model  man. 

Paris. 

The  gods  be  thanked  they  had  their  way,  not 
yours  ! 

Helen. 

I  would  not  blame  the  gods,  though  I  must  feel, 
At  times,  they  work  us  wrong.    To  it  I  cling: 
Love  is  the  very  maddest  might  in  all 
This  stormy  world  ;  and  beauty,  could  it  choose 
Twixt  praise  and  pity,  oft  would  take  the  pity. 

Paris. 

Were  I  the  king,  I  'd  send  old  y^thra  home, 
And  rid  my  queen  of  such  philosophy 
As  flies  i'  the  face  of  nature. 

Helen. 

Lay  it  not 

At  y^Ethra's  door  ;  hers  are  quite  other  thoughts. 
But  now,  enough  ;  we  enter  shadowy  ways, 

4  33 


Which  none  should  ever  walk  in  till  he  must. 
'T  was  you,  grave  Prince,  that  led ;  the  fault  is 
yours. 

Paris. 

Queen  Helen,  do  you  play  with  me,  or  toward 
Your  heart  creeps  the  black  shadow  on  mine  own? 
I  question  if  again  the  sun  will  shine 
For  me,  ay,  if  my  night  will  burn  one  star, 
As  gods  and  all  men  know,  none  sees  your  face 
And  loves  you  not.     I,  that  was  born  for  love, 
And,  as  you  say  too  truly,  born  likewise 
To  fire  and  blood  of  war — I,  Queen,  so  born, 
The  last  of  men  can  look  into  your  face, 
And  be  thereafter  what  I  was.     I  came 
As  light  of  life  as  any  flower  that  nods 
In  Ceres'  fields  ;  I  take  me  hence  as  weighed 
As  the  pine  that,  blasted,  hangs  his  pithless  arms, 
Lone,  on  the  windy  cliff. 
'T  is  not  the  time  or  place  for  me  to  speak  ; 
But  you  will  speak,  for  one  thing  must  I  know. 
Queen  Helen,  if  you  meant  your  life  is  now 
Happier  than  it  would  be  held  close  in  love 
Fixed  as  the  star  is  fixed  in  the  pure  heavens  ; 
If,  verily,  you  meant  that,  tell  me  so. 
Tell  me,  and  I  '11  not  speak  another  word. 
And,  oh,  if 't  was  but  said,  not  meant,  again 
34 


I  pray  you,  tell  me  so !     The  time  is  short : 
This  night  my  sail  shall  fill  for  Salamis. 

Helen. 
So  soon  !    My  lord  will  not  forgive  me  for  it. 

Paris. 
Yes,  Queen,  to-night.    My  men  are  in  the  boats. 

Helen. 
The  nights  are  many,  many  ;  why  to-night? 

Paris. 

My  men  await  the  signal ;  I,  your  answer. 
Be  open  with  me,  that  I  may  know  if  now 
I  look  my  last  on  this  eternal  beauty, 
Or  tear  me  from  it,  vowing  to  return, 
Prepared  to  speak  my  love,  and  make  it  good 
At  point  of  Trojan  swords. 

Helen. 

You  said  to-night,  and  something  after  that. 

I  have  a  dizziness,  at  times  ;  I  hear, 

I  hear,  yet  do  not  hear. —  Was  that  good  ,/Ethra  ? 

35 


/Etbra.       [Entering. 
Ay,  little  Helen  Queen. — 

[Aside. 

Out  on  the  goddess  !     She  has  flown  again 
Before  my  darling,  blinding  her  sweet  eyes. 

[Hurries  past  the  loom,  pulling  off  the  curtain.] 

What  is  it,  little  Queen  ? 

Helen. 
I  'm  over  it,  good  y^Ethra  ;  you  may  go. 

[She  rouses,  to  find  Paris  gazing  at  the  figures  in  the  loom.] 

As  it  has  always  been  !  my  will  is  naught. 
My  heart  is  out,  dropt,  naked,  in  your  hand, 
Where  you  may  turn  it,  look  it  round  and  round. 

Parts. 

Through  the  long  hours  I  pleasured  with  the  king 
My  fancy,  too,  dwelt  on  the  absent  one, 
To  call  her  up.    Your  task,  to  mine,  was  light ; 
My  fancy  flagged,  most  miserably  failed. 

Helen. 

If  ever  in  my  life  I  held  resolve, 

Clung  to  it  long  as  I  could  hold  it,  I 

Have  done  so  now.     I  vowed  to  live  love  down, 

36 


Or  free  it,  as  there,  that  it  might  fly  away  ; 

I  meant,  believe  me,  none  should  ever  know  it. 

Paris. 

Dear  Queen  !  my  soldier's  hand  laid  soft  on  this 
White  hand,  love's  lily,  drooped  in  evening  sleep, 
I  swear,  as  on  the  altar  of  the  gods, 
My  will  is  weak  as  yours  ;  my  will,  ere  this 
Stubborn  as  the  grim  stone  in  Ilion's  wall. 
We  are  as  children,  you  and  I ;  both  helpless. 

Helen. 

A  child  am  I ;  alas  !  have  ever  been 

A  child,  a  cast  leaf  on  the  uncaring  wind. 

I  pray  you,  woo  me  not,  but  teach  me,  Paris  ; 

Oh,  tell  me  what  I  do,  and  why  I  do  it ! 

Instruct  me  ;  for  you  see  I  cannot  hide 

It  longer.     My  love  is  but  too  plain.     There  is 

No  need  of  wooing  ;  teach  me,  Paris,  teach  me  ! 

Paris. 

Know,  then,  I  could  not  win  you  of  myself ; 
The  man  was  never  born,  nor  shall  the  man 
Be  born,  that  much  a  god.     The  Ojjeen  of  Love 
Must  win  my  queen. 

37 


Helen. 

I  knew  it  was  no  dream  ; 
She  circled  thrice  your  chariot  as  you  came. 
Her  now  I  feel,  her  breath  upon  my  face, 
Her  heart  against  my  own.     I  float  between 
A  waking  and  a  sleep ;  I  swim  in  bliss. 

Paris. 

My  heart  believes  it,  daughter  of  the  gods. 

This  much  I  know  for  truth  : 

She  promised  me  the  fairest  woman  born, 

She  promised  1  should  have  whom  now  I  have, 

Of  earth  or  Heaven  the  sweetest,  sweetest  Love. 

Helen. 

Teach  me  it  every  hour,  Love,  while  I  live, 
Too  sweet  a  lesson  to  be  sooner  learned. 

Paris. 

The  tale  I  told  you  when  we  met,  was  but 

Half  told;  I'll  end  it,  now.    The  Queen  of  Love — 

A  thing  she  needed  not  to  do  to  make 

Me  more  her  slave,  for  I  was  prostrate  fallen 

Before  her — she,  I  say,  soft  in  my  ear 

Whispered  these  haunting  words  :   "  For  this  fair 

gift 

Will  I  bestow  a  fairer.     Love  has  bred 
38 


'Mong  men  the  wonder  of  her  kind,  supreme 
For  beauty,  first  for  all  that  flesh  can  wear 
Of  Heaven,  peerless  alike  in  seasons  gone 
And  in  the  unnumbered  summers  yet  to  come. 
She  is  my  special  charge,  more  dear  to  me 
Than  dearest  daughter  to  a  mortal  mother. 
Her  will  I  lead  you  to  ;  her  loveliness, 
Yea,  all  her  love,  is  yours." 

Helen. 

Goddess,  forgive  me,  unworthy  of  your  care, 
My  feeble  blame !     You  will  forget  it  all ; 
For  you  know  all  my  past.     Now  lift  I  praise 
Of  a  full  heart,  which  thankfully  would  stop 
Were  't  not  to  throb  beyond  this  perfect  hour. 

Paris. 

Nay,  nay,  our  cup  is  not  yet  filled  ;  the  future 
Shall  pour  it  fuller  yet.     Turn  to  the  past, 
My  Love,  my  peerless  Love, 
And  briefly  tell  me  what  it  was,  that  I 
May  set  against  that  night  the  day  to  be. 

Helen. 

It  seems  so  far  away,  now  ;  and  so  near 
But  yesterday  !    1  '11  tell  it  as  best  I  may. 
When  I  had  years  enough  to  know  how  dread 
39 


A  thing  is  death,  a  plague  fell  on  the  land, 
And  we  must  make  our  costliest  offering. 
Thus  early  weighed  on  me  the  curse  of  beauty. 
They  seized  me  ;  yea,  my  father  dragged  me  forth, 
The  darling  of  his  heart.     They  braided  up 
My  long,  bright  hair,  the  plaything  of  the  winds 
That  loved  to  chase  me  on  the  sunny  hills  ; 
They  bound  it  up,  and,  there,  among  the  flowers, 
Among  my  own  wild  flowers,  they  bared  the 

knife 
To  spill  my  blood  into  their  pitying  faces. 

Paris. 
Horror  unspeakable !     Say  on,  say  on. 

Helen. 

I  closed  my  eyes  to  the  clear  blue  above, 
And  knew  no  more.     When  I  awoke,  I  was 
At  home  again,  and  they  were  weeping  round 

me, — 

Weeping  for  joy  that  I  was  spared.     It  seems, 
The  wicked  knife,  raised,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Fierce  swept  an  eagle  down,  and  with  her  talons 
Tore  it  from  the  bad  hand,  and  sunk  it  in 
A  heifer's  side.     The  stricken  creature  bled, 
The  plague  was  stayed,  and  my  poor  life  was  saved. 
40 


Paris. 

0  Aphrodite,  if  poor  human  might 

The  least  can  aid  your  sovereign  will,  henceforth 
Take  thou  my  all  for  this  one  precious  deed  ! 

Helen. 

It  is  so  far  away.     So  close  't  was,  once, 
So  close  and  killing  !  now  almost  forgot. 

Paris. 

Feel  me,  my  drowsy  Love  ;  I  do  not  say 
Awake.    Sleep  on,  and  sweeter  be  the  sleep  ; 
But  know  my  arms  are  round  you,  and  our  bliss 
Is  not  a  dream.   This  kiss,  though  you  slept  sound 
As  any  sleep  in  graves,  this  must  you  feel, 
And  know  it  mine.     I  will  not  interrupt 
You  save  with  kisses ;  speak,  say  on,  say  on. 

Helen. 

A  child  short-robed,  and  Castanet  in  hand, 

1  danced  among  the  dancers  in  the  Temple  — 
To-morrow  will  I  take  you  to  the  place — 
When  on  us  broke  resistless  Theseus,  with  him 
His  friend  Pirithous  ;  and  I  again 

Was  seized,  and  borne  away  to  a  stranger-land. 
The  gift  most  dangerous  of  the  gifts  of  Heaven 
Again  had  cursed  me  ;  and  so  young  yet !    Oh, 

5  4I 


Take  back  poor  beauty's  praise,  and  give  it  pity! 
They  hid  me  at  Aphidnae,  in  her  care 
Whose  breast  has  been  my  pillow  to  this  day, — 
My  faithful  yEthra. 

Paris. 

/Ethra  !  I  know  her,  now  ; 

She  is  great  Theseus'  mother.     Next  our  goddess 
And  god-born  Helen  love  I  hoary  ^Bthra. 

Helen. 

Ay,  she  had  screened  me  from  Pirithous, 
Had  held  me  safe  against  her  son  himself. 
As  it  befell,  the  test  went  not  so  far ; 
For,  as  the  eagle  swept  to  me,  at  home, 
Came  rushing  down  into  the  stranger-land 
My  noble  brothers,  they  that  sailed  with  Jason, 
Immortal  Polydeuces  and  Castor,  sons 
Of  Zeus,  on  whose  dear  heads  he  set  the  stars, 
And  gave  them  fame  white  as  the  steeds  they  rode 
To  ravage  Attica  from  end  to  end, 
And  bring  me  back  to  Sparta.     What  has  been 
Since  then  —  let  it  go  by.     If  I  should  speak 
Of  all,  't  would  be  with  blame  for  those  of  whom 
I  would  speak  well  or  nothing.     Here  I  am, 
Despite  the  winds  of  fate  ; 
Yes,  Paris,  I  am  here,  the  same  cast  leaf. 
42 


But  something  says  't  will  be  a  gentle  gale 
That  takes  me  next ;  I  pray  for  it,  and  think 
T  will  be.     I  think,  next  time,  my  heart  will  float 
With  me,  and  we  shall  have  a  happy  journey. 
My  loving  brothers,  every  other  day 
Returning  from  the  darkness  into  light, 
Guardians  of  all  that  wander  to  and  fro, 
Will  go  with  me ;  and  you,  my  King,  will  go 
With  me,  and  I  shall  pass  on  ways  of  peace, 
Ways  all  unknown  thus  far,  but  opened,  now, 
And  smoothed  for  me,  by  her,  the  sovereign  god 
dess, 
By  her,  dear  Love,  and  you. 

Paris. 

You,  Oreades,  who  glide  through  the  wild  trees, 
And  charm  the  warring   mountains   with  your 

motion  ; 

You,  Nereides,  who  gleam  in  the  green  sea, 
Who  toll  the  bell  swung  in  the  coral  tower, 
And  trip  the  mossy  round  with  Thetis  ;  you 
Whose  hands  unlatch  the  skyey  windows,  and 

loose 

The  rain  and  sunshine  ;  ay,  and  you  who  wake 
The  world  from  her  white  slumber,  and  sow  her 

couch 

43 


With  blossoms,  sweetest  Hours  and  sweetest 

Airs ;  — 

Come,  fairest,  all,  of  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 
And  look  upon  yourselves,  and  see  how  small 
A  part  you  are  of  her,  my  Spartan  Helen. 

Helen. 
Say  on,  sweet  Paris  ;  let  me  not  awake. 

Paris. 

If,  swallows,  you  lead  hither  soft-eyed  Spring, 
Till  Helen  come  comes  never  golden  Summer  ; 
Her  dwelling's  here,  here  in  this  yellow  hair. 
Should  Helen,  in  Tethys'  place,  receive  the  sun 
When  he  would  slumber,  there  'd  be  no  more 

day; 

Once  on  her  breast,  he  would  never  rise  again. 
O  golden  Queen,  forget  the  past !  look  on 
The  present,  which  but  ushers  in  the  years 
When  men  nor  sowed  nor  reaped,  yet  all  the 

world 

Was  as  a  garden  ;  when  the  brooks  ran  milk, 
And  up  and  down  the  air  grew  melody, — 
The  years  men  thought  were  gone,  the  golden 

years, 

Led  back,  glad  captives,  in  this  golden  hair. 
44 


Helen. 

/Ethra  !  Paris  !  oh  !  oh  !  where  have  I  been, 
And  am  come  back  to  this  ? 

Paris. 

Swift  horror  seams 
Across  your  smooth  girl-brow.     Sweet  Queen,  we 

are 

Beyond  the  reach  of  trouble,  risen  above  it, 
As  birds  from  the  earth,  ay,  as  the  clouds  that  mate 
In  the  mid-azure.     Ah,  forgetful  Helen  ! 

Helen. 

A  file  of  ghosts  went  past  me,  glided  by, 
Dim  shapes  of  men  yet  dwelling  in  bright  Hellas, 
Great  in  the  land,  their  wrathful  helmets  blazing, 
Their  corselets  horrible  with  blood.     I  knew 
The  spectres ;  once  before  they  came,  no  phantoms, 
Resolved,  each  one,  to  take  me  home,  his  bride. 
Far  as  Euripus'  bank  I  followed  them, 
And  saw  them  launch  their  slender,  vengeful  boats, 
And  speed  along  the  /Egean  northward.     Fly, 
O  precious  Paris  !  ere  it  be  too  late. 

Paris. 

By  all  the  might  of  mighty  gods,  if  Paris 

Set  forth,  to-night,  Charon  will  be  his  oarsman. 

43 


There  's  danger?     At  a  sign  from  me  such  men 
Will  quit  their  boats,  and  dash  up  from  the  strand, 
As  soon  shall  tame  for  us  the  haughty  ghosts  ; 
When,  from  among  their  tumbled  bodies,  Helen 
Will  I  lift  up,  and,  with  her  in  my  arms, 
Walk  over  them,  and  point  ship-beaks  for  Ilion. 

Helen. 

Dumb  Menelaus,  groping  through  the  house 
From  room  to  room,  holding  in  his  great  hands 
The  things  I  wore  —  I  see  him  !    Now,  he  turns 
From  them  to  Agamemnon,  whose  huge  breast 
Is  heaving  horribly,  broad  as  Poseidon's  : 
I  cannot  bear  it  longer. 

Enter  /Ethra. 

/Etirra. 

Peace,  silly  children!     Let  your  elder  speak, 
Who,  years  ago,  faced  that  same  god  Poseidon, 
Nor  feared  him  more  than  she  fears  now  the  ghosts 
You  talk  of.     You  have  slept  and  waked.     It  is 
A  way  all  children  have,  being  but  nature. 
I  am  a  mother,  children,  Theseus'  mother  ; 
Two  golden  heads  make  not  this  old  white  head. 
Peace,  pretty  babes,  my  hand  will  lead  you  home. 
Paris,  my  son,  't  is  willed  you  should  bear  off 
46 


My  daughter,  Helen.     Whether  alive  or  dead 

Is  not  declared  ;  that  lies,  my  son,  with  you. 

Do  you  stir  not,  but  wait  to  face  the  king, 

You  put  that  gentle  head  in  peril  worse 

Than  fate  has  woven  for 't  yet.   Take  her,  while  now 

You  may,  unharmed;  house  her  in  llion's  hold, 

Then,  then  return  to  tell  what  you  have  done. 

The  journey  back,  forsooth,  will  not  be  long  ; 

As  you  toward  Greece,  so  Greece  will  move  toward 

you. 

Ay,  she  may  meet  you  so  far  north  that  Helen 
Can  watch  the  brawl,  safe  in  her  Thracian  tower. 

Paris. 
What  say  you  ?  Take  her  so  !  take  Helen  so  ! 

Helen. 

If  I  be  not  most  honorably  won, 
Then  love  's  a  liar,  and  there  is  no  truth ; 
But  if  true  love  speak  truth,  know  I  am  won 
Most  fairly.     And  if  my  wish  have  any  weight, 
And  you  would  sometime  take  me,  Paris,  take 
Me  now. 

Paris. 
Hold  that  head  up,  a  mark  for  scorn  ! 

47 


Helen. 

If  scorn  do  point  at  me,  't  will  point  because 

Of  what  has  been  before  this  honest  hour. 

Go  I  or  stay,  I  am  not  his,  but  yours  ; 

I  never  was  the  king's. 

The  shame  is  hers  that  falsely  stays,  not  hers 

That  goes,  bold  only  to  be  false  no  longer. 

And  yet  so  dread  the  shapes  that  vex  my  thought, 

I  pray  you,  go  without  me.     If  alone 

You  go,  or  we  set  forth  together,  let 

It  be  to-night. 

/Ethra. 

Stick  to  your  loving,  babes  ; 
There  is  no  other  logic  straight  as  love's. 
The  creaturedoes  notbreathewho  would  pronounce 
Him  wrong  whose  hand  had  snatched  this  miracle 
From  her  own  mother's  arms ; 
No  wind  shall  ever  bring  the  voice  of  blame 
For  Helen  or  the  husband  of  her  love. 
My  own  boy  Theseus,  Prince,  pounced  on  her  once, 
And  haled  her  from  the  temple.    That  was  robbery ; 
Yet  all  forgave  it.     I  myself  forgave  it. 
But  to  forgive  was  not  to  make  her  his  ; 
The  high  gods  bred  and  held  her  for  another. 
Love's  day  is  come  ;  and  if  you  take  her  not 
This  night  from  damned  Sparta,  I  say,  now, 
48 


To  your  pale  face,  I  will  myself  set  out 
With  her,  alone,  and  go  and  stand  with  her 
Before  old  Priam  ;  nor  tell  him  half  the  story 
Ere  he  shall  shake  his  years  off,  and,  the  might 
Of  youth  once  more  upon  him,  brand  his  darling 
The  very  basest  'mong  his  Thracian  slaves. 


Night.  Paris  and  Helen  are  engaged  in  a  finger-game,  which 
Helen  invented  to  play  with  Paris.  /Ethra  watches  them, 
herself  unobserved. 

/Ethra.      [Aside. 

The  storm  is  past,  no  cloud  in  all  the  sky  ; 

I  cannot  think  that  ever  tempest  was, 

So  fair  the  heaven  of  love,  now.  — Goddess,  thine 

Indeed  is  might,  yea,  sovereign  might  and  grace ! 

Helen. 

Could  I  but  learn  how  dull  you  are  at  learning, 
I  should  not  try  to  teach  you.     You  have  lost 
A  twenty  kisses  in  as  many  minutes. 

Paris. 
Is  this  the  finger  ? 

6  49 


Helen. 

That 's  the  very  one 
You  lost  on  last. 

Paris. 

Then  will  I  play  it — so. 

Helen. 

You  kissed  before  you  played. 
Paris. 

Well,  now  I  've  played. 
Helen. 
And  kissed  me  out  of  turn. 

Paris. 

This  takes  it  back. 
Helen. 
You  cannot  take  it  back. 

Paris. 

No?    Then  here  't  is. 
Helen. 

I  say  again,  it  is  a  finger-game, 
Not  played  with  lips. — Was  that  the  watcher's 
signal  ? 

5° 


Paris. 
I  '11  look,  for  one  more  kiss. 

Helen. 

I  '11  look  myself. 

Helen  leaves  the  room,  Paris  following. 

Paris. 
'T  is  a  kind  service.     I  will  kiss  you  for  't. 


Where  now  's  the  king,  and  where  is  Salamis, 
Where  aught  my  pretty  ones  so  hung  on  once  ? 
All  clean  forgot  :  the  goddess  has  her  way. 
So  shone  my  girl's  soft  eyes  when,  back  at  Athens, 
I  used  to  tell  her  of  Gorgo  and  Lamia. 
Oh,  it  is  worth  my  woes,  worth  all  my  bonds, 
To  look  on  this  !     Antic  as  nimblest  fawns, 
They  frisk  it  to  the  chariot.  —  Dapple  joys 
Of  Aphrodite,  she  will  tend  you  well. 
Soon  as  you  mount,  the  waiting  mist  will  fold, 
And  shut  you  safely  from  the  peeping  Spartans. 
The  very  horses  know  their  delicate  errand  ; 
The  stallions,  wont  to  neigh  and  prance  as  though 
They  rolled  their  wild  eyes  on  Aurora's  mares, 
Now  barely  move  their  shiny  sides  for  breath, 
And  every  hoof  is  fixed  as  it  were  nailed 
5' 


To  the  hard  Spartan  ground.  And  I  Ve  helped,  too, — 

The  king's  fool-slaves  have  I  drugged  well  with  wine ; 

They  will  not  wake  till  we  be  far  at  sea. 

Boy  Paris  bade  me  go,  and  have  my  freedom  ; 

I  will  not  take  it  till  I  see  my  bird 

In  her  white  cage,  all  safe  in  strong- walled  Ilion. 

Farewell  to  Lacedaemon ! 

When  next  a-hunting  goes  the  hunter-king 

T  will  be  a  hunt  with  echoes  will  scud  round 

The  circuit  of  the  seas.     Farewell,  once  more, 

Farewell  to  Lacedaemon  ! 

Dark  are  the  ways  of  men  ;  most  brief  are  joys, 

And  of  brief  joys,  is  love,  alas  !  the  briefest. 

My  dears,  who  dream  so  deep,  must  wake  again  ; 

Tempest  shall  drive,  and  the  wild  shock  of  war 

SfTake  down  dream-builded  bliss.     So  let  it  be. 

Love's  hour  is  brief,  but  oh,  that  hour  !  that  hour ! 


52 


HOMERIC   EXPERIMENTS 

NOTE.  These  experiments  are  based  on  the  English  verse  and 
prose  of  several  translators;  to  whom,  especially  to  Messrs. 
Lang,  Leaf,  and  Myers,  is  here  offered  most  humble  apology. 


CHRYSES  BEFORE  AGAMEMNON 

(Opening  of  Book  I) 

SING,  Goddess,  crossed  Achilles'  brooding  anger, 
The  wrath  that  worked  the  ruin  of  Achaia, 
Brought  on  her  all  the  many,  many  woes 
Whereunder  sank  her  noble  souls  to  Hell, 
Their  bodies  left  upon  the  fateful  field, 
Carrion,  to  glut  the  vultures  and  the  dogs  ; 
Sing  the  long-following  horrors  sent  of  Heaven, 
Wroth  for  Atreides  and  Achilles'  broil. 
Which  was  it,  'mong  the  gods,  that  set  them  on? 
The  son  that  fair-haired  Leto  bore  to  Zeus, 
He  't  was,  stirred  up  against  the  king,  that  smote 
The  host  with  a  sore  plague,  and  through  the  camp 
Stalked  awful  death,  for  the  dishonor  done 
His  priest,  white-haired  old  Chryses,  whom  he 
loved. 

Now  Chryses,  both  his  old  hands  full  of  gifts, 
Had  wandered  to  the  hollow  ships  to  buy 
His  daughter  back.     Upon  his  golden  staff, 

55 


Wreathed  with  Apollo's  chaplet,  he  leaned,  and 

prayed 

The  Achaian  people,  crying  on  their  chieftains : 
"  O  kings,  and  ye  well-greaved  warriors  all, 
Now,  by  the  blessed  gods,  may  ye  lay  waste 
The  strong-walled  town  and  get  ye  to  your  ships 
And  set  off  home  in  safety  ;  only  her 
Take  not.     Lo,  costly  gifts  I  bring ;  these  take, 
And  leave  my  child  to  me.     So  shall  ye  find 
Sure  favor  in  the  eyes  of  him  I  serve, 
Apollo,  loved  of  the  Lord  of  Heaven." 
And  all  the  people  heard  the  old  man  gladly, 
And  they  would  take  the  ransom  ;  only  one 
Stood  out,  the  son  of  Atreus,  Agamemnon. 
Ruthless  was  he,  and  roughly  made  he  answer: 
"  Stake  not  too  much,  old  man,  upon  thy  staff 
And  chaplet ;  get  thee  gone  ;  let  me  not  find  thee 
Among  the  hollow  galleys  any  more. 
For  I  '11  not  free  her ;  henceforth  her  home  is  Argos, 
That  far  from  kin  and  country  ;  there,  where  wait 
Her  loom  and  her  fair  bed,  her  bed  and  mine. 
Prate  not,  but  go  while  yet 't  is  well  with  thee." 

So  spake  he,  and  the  good  old  man  shrank  back, 
And  crept  away,  and  with  bowed  head  passed  on 
Along  the  shore  of  the  loud-sounding  sea. 


HELEN   ON   THE  TOWER 

(Book  III) 

AND  lovely,  long-robed  Helen  answered  him  : 
"  I  see  the  other  Greeks  with  glancing  eyes, 
The  great  Achaians,  I  could  name  them  all ; 
But  two  I  cannot  find,  two  mighty  ones 
And  valiant,  Castor,  conqueror  of  horses, 
And  Polydeuces,  battler  hand  to  hand, 
My  brothers,  whom  my  own  high  mother  bore. 
They  came  not  up  from  pleasant  Lacedaemon, 
Or  else  they  sailed  up  in  the  hollow  ships, 
But  stand,  and  watch  the  battle  from  afar, 
Lest  they  should  hear  the  evil  things  men  say 
Of  me,  given  over  to  mockery  and  scorn."  — 
She  said  ;  but  both  were  fast  asleep  in  death, 
Back  in  their  own  dear  land,  fair  Lacedaemon. 


57 


MEETING  OF  THE  DANAANS  AND  TROJANS 

(Book  IV) 

As  when,  wild  on  the  ever-roaring  shore, 
The  wind  out  of  the  west  rakes  up  a  wave, 
Draws,  draws  it  up,  and  tumbles  it,  bellowing,  on 
The  rock-butts,  spuming  to  the  precipice-top, 
So  rose  and  smote  the  Danaan  battalions. 
Only  the  captains  spoke ;  the  men  rushed  dumb, 
As  there  were  not  a  voice  among  them  all; 
Silent  they  came,  and  shining  in  their  armor. 
Not  so  the  Trojans  ;  they  came  on  with  clamor 
Thick  as  the  bleat  of  ewes,  at  milking-time, 
Mewed  in  the  rich  man's  pen,  calling  their  lambs  ; 
With  all  this  noise  came  on  the  Trojan  host. 
For  they  had  migrated  from  many  lands, 
And  were  of  divers  tongues.     Some  Ares  pricked 
To  war,  and  some  gray-eyed  Athene  urged, 
While  others  Terror  goaded,  Fright,  and  Strife, 
Forever  furious,  sister  and  fit  mate 
Of  murderer  Ares,  she  that  standeth  squat 
At  first,  and  after  stretches  up  her  head 
58 


Heaven  high,  while  yet  her  feet  holdfast  the  ground. 
She,  ranging  through  the  ranks,  now  hurried  hot 
The  general  rage,  and  set  the  battle  on. 

And  it  was  battle.    Ox-hide  shield  on  shield, 
Targe  griding  targe,  brass  clanging  brass,  the  dart, 
Spike,  spear  fast  clashing,  might  wild  hurled  on 

might — 

The  wide  air  rattled  with  it  and  the  shouts 
And  death-groans,  and  the  grasses  swum  in  blood. 


59 


HECTOR  TO  ANDROMACHE 

(Book  YI) 

THEN  answered  her  he  of  the  glancing  helm  : 
"  All  this,  my  wife,  I  think  on,  but  bethink 
Me,  too,  of  all  the  scorn  would  cover  me, 
Shamed  by  famed  Ilion's  princes  and  the  women 
Of  Ilion,  raimented  in  trailing  robes, 
If  so  I  skulk,  and  shun  the  front  of  war. 
It  must  not  be.     My  very  soul  abhors  it ; 
For,  from  my  youth  up,  it  hath  been  my  wont 
To  lead  the  fight,  ay,  in  the  van  to  strike 
For  hoary  Priam's  honor  and  mine  own. 
The  future  frights  me  not ;  and  this  although 
It  shall  not  fail,  but  surely  come  to  pass, 
That  goodly  Ilion  shall  lie  low,  her  head 
Bowed  in  the  dust,  and  Priam's  old  white  head, 
And  all  that  lift  for  him  the  princely  spear. 
Yet  not  for  this  great  woe  my  breast  is  torn 
With  anguish  ;  not  for  Hecabe,  my  mother, 
Neither  for  Priam,  my  good  father  old, 
Nor  for  my  many  brothers,  all  so  brave, 
60 


And  all  foredoomed, — Oh,  not  for  these  my  soul 

Dies  out  within  me,  but  for  thee,  the  day 

The  brazen-mailed  Achaian  comes,  and  thou 

Must  rise  and  follow  him. 

Thereafter  shalt  thou  bide  with  him  at  Argos, 

And  ply  the  alien  loom,  and  bring  for  him 

To  drink,  dipping  the  water  wells,  Messeis 

Or  Hypereia,  evilly  entreated, 

Doing  his  bidding  and  the  will  of  fate. 

And  men  shall  look  on  thee,  and  see  thy  tears, 

And  say,  "  She  once  was  Hector's,  his  that  led 

To  fight  the  haughty  conquerors  of  the  horses 

When  wild  the  war  was  round  the  walls  of  Ilion." 

So  they  will  point  thee  out,  in  that  dread  day, 

And  fresh  thy  tears  shall  gush,  for  that  thy  bonds 

Are  grievous,  and  the  man  would  rend  them  off, 

Thy  Hector,  he,  thy  husband,  is  no  more. 


61 


ACHILLES  TO  ULYSSES 

(Book  IX) 

AND  shall  I  counsel  with  him  ?  shall  I  give 

Myself  in  any  wise  to  him  that  could 

Bespeak  me  fair  and  play  me  false  ?     No  more ; 

Once  is  enough  ;  now  let  him  go  his  ways. 

And  he  may  go  in  peace  ;  I  take  no  man 

To  task  whose  head  just  Zeus  hath  touched  and 

emptied. 

Nor  can  I  scorn  him,  fallen  ;  hence  on  his  gifts 
Must  heap  my  hate.    Ten  times,  ay,  twenty  times 
What  he  has  now  or  may  hereafter  have, 
Though  it  should  mount  so  high  't  would  pass  in 

worth 

Orchomenus  and  hundred-gated  Thebes, 
Each  gate  so  broad,  two  hundred  warriors,  horse 
And  chariots,  plunge  in  't  at  once,  nor  choke  it ; 
Yea,  this,  with  gifts  dealed  out  as  the  infinite  sands, 
I  would  not  stoop  to  look  on.     To  right  the  past 
Will  cost  yet  dearer  Atreus  Agamemnon. 
As  for  his  daughter,  did  she  shine  before  me, 
62 


Another  Aphrodite,  skilled  withal 

To  tend  the  loom  with  her  of  the  gray  eyes, 

She  would  not  tempt  me.     Let  him  choose  a  man 

More  fit  for  her  than  I,  more  like  a  king. 

When  I  would  marry,  I  will  look  to  Peleus  ; 

Do  the  gods  but  bring  me  home  again,  himself, 

My  father,  will  name  the  one  his  son  shall  wed. 

In  Hellas  and  in  Phthia  many  a  prince 

Has  fairest  daughters — yes,  and  cities  with  them  ; 

And  I  may  take  my  choice.     In  days  bygone, 

Full  oft  my  heart  was  moved  to  take  to  me 

A  wife,  and  have  my  peace  and  joy  at  home, 

Have  all  old  Peleus  hath,  my  honored  father. 

For  happy  life  is  all : 

The  treasure-store  of  broad-wayed  Ilion  ere 

The  sons  of  the  Achaians  came,  her  hoard 

With  that  behind  the  Darter's  marble  door 

Locked,  there,  in  rocky  Pythos, 

Were  nothing,  weighed  with  life  and  peace  and  joy. 

Tripods  and  cattle,  horses  auburn-maned, 

Are  his  that  wills  to  take  them  ;  but  when  once 

The  life  is  out,  the  breath  slipt  through,  well  past 

The  teeth,  what  man  of  all  shall  bring  it  back? 

I  know  my  fate,  for  she  hath  told  it  me, 

My  mother,  silver-footed  Thetis.     Toward 

My  death  there  run  two  ways  :  if  I  wait  on 

To  waste  great  Ilion,  then  my  fame  shall  live, 


But  I  myself  am  lost ; 
Do  I  draw  off,  and  fly  this  idle  war, 
Then  shall  my  memory  perish,  but  myself 
Shall  have  enduring  days,  nor  come  to  death 
Till  he  shall  meet  me  kindly  in  mine  age. 

And  you,  too,  would  I  counsel  to  draw  off, 

And  turn  your  prows  toward  home ;  for  Ilion's 

towers 

Will  not  bow  down  to  you,  since  Zeus  doth  hold 
Them  up  against  the  world . — You  have  my  answer, 
Which,  as  befits  your  office,  plain  deliver, 
And  bid  the  Grecian  leaders  fix  upon 
A  better  way  to  save  the  hollow  ships 
And  them  that  steered  them  hither.     On  the  way 
Ye  talked  of  think  no  longer  ;  it  has  failed. 
But  Phoenix,  let  him  bide  with  me,  to-night, 
That  on  the  morrow  —  should  he  will  to  go 
With  me,  not  otherwise — we  may  set  out 
For  Phthia,  Phthia  our  beloved  land. 


64 


HERA  IN  HER  CHAMBER 

(Book  X1Y) 

AND  straight  she  came  up  to  her  chamber,  planned 
And  fashioned  by  her  darling  son  Hephaestus, 
Built  with  the  massive  doors,  and  secret  bolt 
No  hand  but  hers  could  draw  ;  hither  she  came, 
And  entered  in,  and  closed  the  golden  door. 
And  precious  ointment  she  put  on,  and  laved, 
And  made  her  lovely  body  without  stain  ; 
Nor  stinted  aught  the  smooth  ambrosial  oil 
Of  searching  perfume,  but  one  drop  of  which, 
Spilled  on  the  floor  where  the  immortals  walk, 
Sets  wandering  sweetest  odor  up  and  down 
The  air  throughout  the  earth  and  endless  heaven. 
So  did  the  joy  of  Zeus  exalt  her  beauty  ; 
Then  dressed  with  her  white  hands  the  blessed 

hair 

Forever  flowing  from  her  fragrant  head. 
And  down  she  took  the  gown  Athene  made  her, 
The  pleasant-smelling  robe  with  delicate  shapes 
A-dancing  out  and  in  the  shifting  film, 

s  65 


And  clad  her  in  it,  and  looped  it  at  the  throat 
With  clasps  of  gold,  and  girt  her  girdle  on, 
Her  belt  with  many  tassels  ;  in  her  ears 
She  hung  the  swinging  earrings,  triple-gemmed, 
Alive  with  fires  that  flickered  every  way  ; 
Then  over  her,  down  all  the  heavenly  splendor, 
She  showered  the  veil,  as  of  the  morning  sun 
beams, 

New-woven,  unworn  till  now, 
And  tied  the  sandals  on  her  shining  feet. 


66 


ACHILLES  MOUNTS  THE  WAR  CHARIOT 

(End  of  Book  XIX) 

AND  forth  he  drew  his  father's  heavy  spear, 
Pond'rous  and  strong,  no  other  hand  could  hold, 
The  spear  that  waited  till  he  came  to  wield  it, 
Achilles  ;  Cheiron  from  a  peak  of  Pelion 
Brought  it,  and  gave  it  to  his  honored  father 
For  warrior's  slaughterdom.  And  they,  too,  stirred, 
The  men  Automedon  and  Alcimus, 
Who  put  the  shining  harness  on  the  horses  — 
The  collars  and  the  glossy  straps,  the  bits 
Which  glittered  in  their  jaws  —  and  tossed  the 

reins 

Back  to  the  solid  chariot.     In  his  hand 
The  lash,  as  't  were  a  meteor  streaming,  now 
Automedon  sprang  up  behind  the  team, 
And  after  him  Achilles,  in  his  armor, 
Peer  of  the  Lord  of  Light,  Hyperion, 
And  on  his  father's  horses  terribly 
He  called  :  "  Xanthus  and  Balius,  you  that  boast 
The  blood  of  swift  Podarge,  see  to  it 
67 


You  bring  your  master  back,  when  he  would 

breathe 

From  battle  !  fly  not  off,  and  leave  him  there, 
As  late  you  left  Patroclus,  lying  dead ! " 
And  Xanthus,  whose  slim  hoofs  are  as  the  wind, 
Bowed  down  his  head  and  answered,  and  his  mane, 
And  the  glory  of  his  mane,  was  on  the  ground  ; 
Even  so  he  bowed  and  answered,  for  sweet  speech 
He  had  of  Hera,  her  of  the  white  arms  : 
"  Dread  son  of  Peleus,  verily  once  more 
Will  we  two  bring  thee  back,  but  know  that  death 
Is  nigh  thee  ;  not  through  us,  but  at  the  hands 
Of  them  the  during  gods  and  ruthless  Fate. 
For  not  because  we  two  were  loth,  or  slack 
In  anywise,  did  Ilion  strip  away 
Patroclus'  arms,  and  rob  his  noble  body  ; 
It  was  that  other,  great  among  the  gods, 
The  son  of  Leto  of  the  lovely  hair, 
He  felled  him  in  the  forefront  of  the  fight, 
And  gave  to  Hector  glory.     Not  the  wind 
Out  of  the  west  hath  nimbler  feet  than  ours, 
But  thou  art  doomed,  given  over  to  be  slain  ; 
A  god  shall  do  it  and  a  mortal  man." 
And  here  the  Furies  took  away  his  speech, 
And  straight  fleet-foot  Achilles,  filled  with  pain, 
Lifted  his  voice :  "  Xanthus, 
Must  thou,  too,  stab  at  me?     It  needeth  not. 

68 


Too  well  I  know  that  here  shall  be  the  end  ; 

Here  shall  I  fall,  faj  from  my  father  dear 

And  my  dear  mother.     Nathless,  ere  I  go 

Shall,many  a  Trojan  throat  be  choked  with  war!" 

He  said,  and  lashed  the  steeds  ; 

He  cried,  and  to  the  front  the  chariot  thundered. 


69 


ANACREON 


HAPPY  GRASSHOPPER 

(Anacreon ) 

HAPPY  grasshopper,  O  you, 

Sipping  cool  cups  of  the  dew, 

Sipping,  making  melodies 

On  the  greenest  leaf  that  is, — 

Earth  keeps  not  one  blissful  thing 

Hid  from  you.     You  sing  and  sing  ; 

Sweet  you  sing  and  tenderly,, 

Lest  some  little  hurt  should  be. 

Spring  first  whispers  in  your  ear, 

And  you  tell  us  what  you  hear  ; 

Every  muse,  as  every  heart, 

Loves  you  ;  all  Apollo's  art 

Ever  wakes  in  realms  above 

You  sing  over  to  lowly  love. 

Grasshopper,  ah,  happier  far 

Than  the  happy  gods  you  are  ; 

They  share  not  their  heaven,  while  you, 

Happy,  make  us  happy,  too. 


73 


LITTLE  LOVE  FORGETTETH  HIS  UMBRELLA 

(Anacreon  ) 

LOVE  came,  one  night,  his  wings  all  wet, 
And  put  his  face  against  the  pane, 
And  shook  his  ringlets  in  the  rain  ; 
When  soon  I  heard  the  sweetest  noise, 
Made  'twixt  the  wind,  his  wings  and  voice : 

I  heard  it,  and  I  hear  it  yet. 

What  could  I  do  but  ope  the  door, 
And  take  him  softly  from  the  storm, 
And  rub  his  rosy  body  warm, 
And  hang  to  dry  the  slackened  bow 
And  silver  arrows,  dripping  so, 

And  make  him  happy  as  before  ? 

I  wist  not  what  he  was  about : 
He  took  an  arrow  dry  and  clean, 
And  said,  "  'T  will  fly  right  well,  I  ween." 
Now  here  it  is,  the  very  dart ; 
Here  't  is,  the  barb  fast  in  my  heart, 

The  pretty  feathers  sticking  out. 


74 


HOMER 

PAINTER  that  summed  rich  Croton's  daughters  all, 
Blent  them  in  one  surpassing  shape,  that  she 
Whose  beauty  shook  strong  Ilion  to  its  fall 
Once  more  might,  from  thy  canvas,  soft  enthrall 
The  world,  so  sweet  the  shadow's  sorcery, — 
Nay,  though  an  angel  hand  had  stayed  thine  own, 
It  were  our  doom  to  wait,  forever  wait, 
Nor  know  her  face.     Only  his  melody 
Could  call  her  back,  the  father's  voice  alone, 
Homer's,  and  bid  her  linger  there  so  late, 
Helen,  yet  leveling  Heaven  with  Ilion's  gate. 


75 


THE  ILIAD 

\VHITE  Priam  praying,  young  Patroclus'  fall, 
Good  Chryses  old,  Athene  flaming  wild, 
Andromache  the  fragrant,  with  her  child, 

And,  oh,  that  other,  Helen  !  on  the  wall ; 

Achilles,  Hector,  all  the  heroes,  kings, 

The  storm  of  haughty  helmets  tossed  at  Troy,- 
What  glory  caught  from  warrior  woe  and  joy 

Waves  not  upon  his  wings  when  Homer  sings? 


THE  ODYSSEY 

HUSHED  is  the  din  of  battle  ;  come  away, 
With  gentle  pleasure  leading  graciously  ; 
Along,  along  the  land,  across  the  sea, 

Tis  wander  everywhere  the  happy  may. 

The  greenest  groves  and  sunny  fields  among, 
Our  goodly  guide,  what  lacks  he  fresh  and  fair  ? 
A  god's  own  brow  looms  from  his  snowy  hair ; 

No  mortal  old  had  ever  heart  so  young. 


77 


HALCYONE 

WHEN  sings  Halcyone  her  lovely  lays 
And  piteous,  off  the  charmed  Sicilian  sea 
The  winds  of  winter  into  hiding  flee, 

Far  from  her  nest.     Along  the  utmost  ways 

No  sound  is  heard,  nor  ever  storm-wing  strays; 
Still  both  the  seaweed  and  the  swinging  tree, 
Bound  in  the  quiet  round  Halcyone, 

And  all  the  troubled  world  has  happy  days. 


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